


we will make a new world

by Anemoi



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Andy FUCKS, Liverpool F.C., Locker Room Orgy, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 04:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: Andy in Liverpool, May 2018-June 2019





	we will make a new world

**Author's Note:**

> We've won it six times baby!

 

Losing the final wasn’t like the end of the world. Afterwards, in the hotel, Andy loops the blue ribbon around his hand and dangles the silver medal over his face, one arm under his head. It’s not the end of the world.

Only the end of the season. All of a sudden, he’s tired, just like that.

After a while, James comes out of the shower with just a towel on, hair dripping, and Andy lets his eyes drift over, too tired to move his head. James looks at him, not saying anything, and Andy’s not sure what he’s thinking, because James was always too good with schooling his expressions.

James comes over, and gently takes the medal from Andy’s hand. He sets it on the bedside table.

“You’re dripping on me,” Andy says.

“Tough,” James says. He smiles, faint. He sets the palm of his hand against Andy’s eyes, for a second, too gentle and too abrupt for anything, really, and Andy sighs. He keeps his eyes closed, hearing the soft click of the light and feeling the room darken behind his eyelids.

 

-

 

It’s not the end of the world. He doesn't know if he believes it, on the airless plane ride back to Liverpool, ears popping on the descent, blinking awake to the seat belt alert. It's a beautiful day in Liverpool. When they part for the summer and he gives all the lads going to the World Cup his blessing, Trent puts a hand against his cheek, brief.  


-

 

After the fracturedness of June it feels like a relief to be back together in preseason, Andy shoving away the remnants of May by throwing himself into the same routines: ice baths and training, watching Trent pull puppy eyes as he loses at cards, endless rounds of pool in the break room. It's a relief to be together in the same routine, feeling out the patterns after an age away.

Season starts proper in August. All at once it's obvious things have changed. Andy feels it- the elasticity of time: Kiev seemed a lifetime ago and yesterday, separated by the blink of an eye. All he knew was that he wanted to scrub that shattered, silent feeling out of his skin, badly, and when he looked at their faces- seeing his desire reflected- it feels almost possible for something different. They storm past West Ham, Crystal Palace, Tottenham: every match he sees all that space on the field, the wide channels, beautiful floating balls from Virgil through oceans of space to land at his feet. It’s lazy, almost, like the opposition players couldn’t stand a chance. The beginning of the season bright with promise.

 And he’s attached, too, to the idea of that space and then the lack of it, the way the team were never as close as after a goal, the way it drew them all down together, limb over limb and heads close, the way his hand settles easily between someone’s shoulder blades just as someone else palms the back of his neck, gentle.

 

-

 

He doesn’t know when things start to take a turn- maybe the end of August, the culmination of a month’s winning binding them all tighter together than before, the newcomers settling in like puzzle pieces slotting into place. But Andy’s never been good at seeing things as they come, exactly. He has flaws: James would say, deadpanned, that he has many of them, paramount being his ability to get burned under any hint of sun. His right foot. His inability to stop rambling on about Celtic to anyone who expressed the slightest interest. And somehow not seeing Virgil till Virgil made it clear beyond any reasonable doubt.

“Andy,” Virgil says, trotting up to him in the parking lot after practice. His hair is still damp and glossy, untied for once and long enough to skim just above his shoulders. Andy catches himself staring, tries to shift his gaze too late. Virgil throws an arm around him, and it’s disconcerting- Andy’s not the tallest man, but Virgil towered over everyone, even the manager. He made Andy feel practically like a toddler in comparison.

“I heard you make fajitas,” Virgil says, no preamble. “Want to eat with me? I’ll cook this time.” 

That’s how he ends up nonplussed in Virgil’s kitchen, watching Virgil confidently chop vegetables in an apron that said _Kiss the Chef or Eat Nothing!_

“Is there a recipe for this?” Andy says, propping his chin on his hands and staring at Virgil. “Can I help?”

“It’s pasta,” Virgil says. “How complicated can it be?”

Half an hour later he’d burned the sauce and Andy’s smothering giggles into the crook of his arm while Virgil swore at him and shoved the pan under the tap. There’s something endearing about Virgil in crisis; maybe just how different he seemed with curls threatening to escape his bun and sauce on his cheek. He looks more pissed off than when Adam nutmegged him in practice five a side. Andy’s hands itched to take his phone out for a picture.

"You don’t actually know what you were doing do you,” Andy says between snorts. “Oh my god.”

Virgil shrugs, but he laughs too, hands on his hips. He laughed with his mouth wide open and eyes crinkled, unguardedly amused, and somehow that takes all the breath from Andy’s lungs.

That was the thing about Virgil, wasn’t it. The way he got by, pretending he knew everything that was going on, projecting the confidence that came with his easy smile and broad shoulders. Somehow that had blinded Andy to whatever lay underneath, someone standing barefoot in the kitchen, laughing ruefully over ruined sauce.

“Jesus,” Andy says, trying to shove every alarming thought away. “Let’s see if we can, salvage anything-” He reaches over for the spoon, hand brushing Virgil’s- and Virgil doesn’t do much at all, except shift slightly- and Andy’s palm settles on his wrist. Andy turns.

The kiss happens slow, and Andy’s never kissed someone that much taller than him before. Virgil’s hand wraps around the base of his neck, snug and warm. Andy has to tilt his whole face up, and it’s a little terrifying, the loss of control.

He’s fisted two hands in Virgil’s shirt. They break apart, and Andy says, “do you want-”

Virgil actually rolls his eyes. “ _Obviously_ -”

“Oh,” Andy says. He felt pretty stupid, but Virgil leans back in.

“You w-”

“Milly is right, you cannot _shut up_ ,” Virgil sighed, walking forward till they’re pressed right against the kitchen counter, his hand at the small of Andy’s back. Andy reaches up to pull his head down a little, kisses the smudge of sauce off his cheek.

“Probably could’ve used salt,” Andy says. “But I guess I can wait on dinn-”

He stops midway to yelp because Virgil’s just lifted him, dumped him on the marble counter with all the pots and pans but Andy couldn’t spare a thought for that now, not with Virgil’s hands spread warm under his shirt and sliding up his sides.

 

-

 

The two of them slip into something quiet and easy as the season goes on, almost indistinguishable from before.  After all, the whole team were close. There’s nothing distinguishing Andy leaping into Virgil’s arms after a goal from Andy wrapping his arms around Mohamed, around Sadio-  it just seemed like an extension for the nature of it, this team, _their_ team, this sense that they have never played as well as they did now, as one.

Not that he was at all good at keeping a secret. Nobody brought it up in front of Virgil, and truth be told Andy didn’t blame them. Virgil’s so intimidating he imagined people just shriveled up in front of his gaze, before they could get the right words out. Somehow no one has ever had that issue in front of him.

“So what’s between you and Virg?” James says, balling up a sock.

“Nothing,” Andy blurts. He can feel his face heating up, and he knows, he just _knows_ that he’s about to blush.

Sadio leans in, conspiratorial. “ “Climb you like a tree”.”

“What?”

Sadio smirks, going back to folding his towel. “That’s what I heard you say. The other day.”

James looks like he wanted to laugh and was holding it back by sheer force of will. Andy smacks Sadio on the shoulder, earning himself a silent reproachful look, and feels a little guilty. He looks back at James and James starts laughing, mouth wide open, laughing so hard Andy could see his tonsils.

“What’s that?” Jordan asks, wandering over.  
  
“Fuck’s sake,” Andy says. He throws his empty deodorant can at the bin and misses.

 

-

 

Meanwhile the season continued, full steam ahead: the weather getting colder, the tempo of matches becoming frenzied. Andy stays behind longer after training, even when they had games midweek, to work on his passes with Trent. They pass the ball, up and down the field till the floodlights come on and sky’s bruised colored.

November starts rocky with a tie away at the Emirates, James’ thunderbolt cancelled out in the last ten minutes and coming back up the M40 with a such a collective sense of frustration in the bus that set his teeth on edge. Then away again, to Belgrade: everything that could go wrong goes wrong. Andy finds himself blocked at every turn, unable to pass, stumbling when he tries to run.

 

-

 

It’s a bit like this: no one grows up wanting to be a left back. It’s certainly not what he imagined, pulling on his Celtic shirt with Larsson on the back before leaving for the park and football. Flying down the center, dribbling past the opposition, a finish into the back of the net like a magician pulling rabbits out of thin air.

But that wasn’t him. It turns out he was only good for running, so that’s what he did. Run so hard till he felt like he could go on forever, permanently suspended at the top of a pendulum swing-

It’s a bit like this: how the body learns through repetition. Andy, aged 10, shoved aside from the ball. Andy, aged 13, out-dribbled on the wing. Andy, aged 15, let go from Celtic. Andy, aged 24, trying and failing to get a decent pass in a Champions League game.

 

-

 

They dig themselves out of the hole, no miracles. Somehow all it took was one goal against Napoli, Anfield roaring out of their minds and they were through to the Knockouts. It was starting to become properly cold, early snow descending in droves onto the practice pitch in Melwood. He catches Mohamed more often than not staring forlornly out of the window, pulling his under armour over his hands. It’s hard to resist teasing him, but Andy always makes up for the laughs with a cuddle.

In mid December they pull off a win against United. It’s been long; he sucks a breath in through his teeth, feeling the wind change around him, around Anfield. Three one, in Anfield. Top of the table. When the third goes in he throws himself into the huddle, everyone circled around Xherdan.

They were properly, properly ignited.

After the game he goes to James’, not entirely sure why except that James was out with his leg injury, and he wanted to see him. Wanted to say _did you see that? Did you see me tear up the wing and leave the Mancs for dead?_ Something about James, maybe just that he was so much older and a veteran of the league, made Andy want his approval like a puppy.

Before James had the front door all the way open Andy had blurted, “What’d you think?”

James doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but his serious face cracks after a minute of Andy’s intense scrutiny. “Embarrassing.”

Andy smacks him, but follows James in.

“How’s the leg?” He’s sorting through James’ fridge, which seemed to be suspiciously empty. There’s a few apples and sandwich meats, so that would just have to do.

He looks up to see James make a face. “Better. I guess at _my_ age..”

Andy laughs, but he couldn’t quite make it just banter. He wanted to put down the bread and walk over, but James wasn’t the sort for that. He couldn’t think of anything he, Andy, could say that would make James feel better, in any case.

“Want one?” Andy says instead, gesturing at the sandwich bread.

“Sure.”

They end up eating in front of the television replaying some golf tournament, James glued to the screen while Andy tried not to get crumbs on his couch. Golf is entertaining enough, but James follows it almost as religiously as football, while Andy’s more convinced it’s far more exciting a sport to play than watch. He finds himself staring at James’ face instead, trying not to get distracted by the way his mouth pursed when he concentrated, the little lines between his eyebrows deepening.

_Settle down, Andrew Robertson._ Andy tried to make his mental caution voice sound as like his mam as possible, and in fact he could actually hear her say it, exactly like when he got too worked up and started doing keepy uppies in the kitchen. It doesn’t really work anymore, now. He’s far too entranced by the weak light from the telly reflecting off James’ cheekbones.

“Robbo?” James says, amused. Andy hopes the dim light would hide his god damned blushing.

The thing with Virgil had been so easy- maybe it _was_ the fact that they couldn’t understand each other thirty percent of the time, things smoothed over with gestures and looks, simultaneous reaching, letting their actions speak for themselves- maybe it was James, just, the shape and angle of him: James, his mate.

“Sorry,” Andy says, it seems like there was nothing to say. James shakes his head slightly, blinking.

“What are you sorry for?” James asks, eyebrows drawing together. Andy looks into his eyes and James looks back, and he smiles, just a little, but enough for Andy to reach across and kiss him.

“This alright?” Andy says, after a minute that felt like an hour. It’s a sweet kiss- no tongue, just gentle. Their heads are very close together, and he can see, just barely, the pulse at James’ throat jumping, erratic.

James shrugs. An honest to god shrug. Andy wanted to push him over for that, or maybe push him over for different reasons.

“Can’t tell yet,” James says. He spreads his legs a little, leans back against the back of the couch, hands loose on his thighs. “Come here and do it properly.”

Andy laughs, but he goes.

  


-

 

The rest of December goes so fast, everything burning up like wildfire. It felt like they were being swallowed by a big red machine, and it will carry on with them, despite them, on and on and on till time immemorial. There’s a lot of talk about achieving immortality in the papers now, every glimpse of a headline making him dizzy despite efforts to stay away from sensationalism. It was impossible to escape, the dial turned up and up on pressure-

And they didn’t talk about it, even though it existed everywhere in Melwood, in Anfield, following each of them back to their cars in the parking lot and then back home. It’s a presence that no one acknowledged. Andy marveled that it should affect him at all, this, this unspeakable _thing_ , a League Title, something Liverpool hasn’t won in his entire lifetime. It seemed too heavy a burden to bear for a team like they were, this incarnation of Liverpool stripped of old shackles and pushing out of some old husk to emerge, glowing in the rain.

It rained too much in Liverpool. It reminded him of home.

 

There’s barely enough time snatched between training and matches, and those times he remembers in shining bits of memory. Moments when they stopped being a team but were somehow more than that. Sandwiched between Newcastle (Four nil in Anfield) and Arsenal (Five one in Anfield) is this:

“Drink?” Virgil says, opening the fridge. Everything smelled great in the kitchen, and Andy leans back on his hands, sniffing the air. Virgil laughs- he always laughs full bodied, not holding back, tipping his head and exposing the long line of his throat.

“Uh- orange juice?” Andy says, idiotically. “I usually eat cereal in the mornings.”

“No tea?” Virgil raises his eyebrows. He pours the orange juice and hands it to Andy, instead of setting it down beside him on the counter. Their fingers brush on the glass, and Andy dips his head, pretending he doesn’t notice.

“Don’t drink tea,” Andy says instead. “It’s just Milly who can’t live without it.”

Virgil’s scooping the eggs onto a plate, and he slides it onto the counter beside Andy. For a second Andy feels the world slow, somehow, can’t make himself look up and look Virgil in the eye, and so the agonizing moments pass until-

Virgil puts a hand gently under his chin and tilts it up. Andy’s wrong about being at eye level. Virgil’s still, somehow, taller, and grinning smugly about it too. Andy leans in and kisses him, just to stop seeing that knowing look, reaches up and fists a hand in Virgil’s soft t shirt, drags him closer.

It’s quiet and it smells like butter in the kitchen, and outside there’s a soft layer of fresh snow covering everything like icing.

“Still early,” Virgil says. “Let’s eat and-”

“Go back to bed?” Andy says. Virgil laughs, and this time Andy puts his palm, gently, against the line of his throat.

 

-

 

The new year turns against them in the Etihad.

 

The problem with immortality, of course,  is that on the pitch they are still eleven men. There are jokes made about the Etihad- it’s kind of an imagination exercise, putting yourselves in the shoes of the opposition, imagining _their_ hunger, their will, their eagerness. Liverpool is smothered under all the blue, even with his cross meeting Trent’s, the snap-flicker-flame of that equalizing goal.

So what? So nothing. He’s sitting dazed on the locker room after most everyone’s left when James wanders in, towel around his neck.

“Come on,” he says. Andy looks up at him. James has that peculiar twist in his mouth that meant he was unhappy, but unwilling to talk about it. James is good at putting on the front, good at digesting his own problems. Andy just looks, instead, memorizing the line in between his eyebrows and the way his eyes widen slightly, looking at Andy.

“What,” Andy says. But he lets himself be pulled up, and James grins. It’s actually a real grin, faint, but real.

“Get dressed,” James says. “Then come home with me.”

He doesn’t quite make it into the house, clambering awkwardly over James in the car before realising he just wanted to press his face into James’ neck, which made the unbearable bearable, for a moment.

Then he shifts, shoving a hand into James’ shorts, half expecting him to protest at the concept of car sex, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t make a sound, breathing going slightly ragged as Andy’s hand speeds up, frantic.

 

“Jesus, Robbo-” James says, eyes wide. Andy kisses the underside of his jaw, wishing badly he’d waited till they were inside, on a bed, but maybe there’ll be time later. He scrambles back to his seat, instead, drags James’ boxers down and sliding James’ cock into his mouth. He feels James hands in his hair, tightening even though it’s too short to get a grasp on.

“Andy,” James says. He reaches down to touch Andy’s face, thumb rubbing over his cheek. It doesn’t take too long for him to come.

“Do you-” James starts. Andy just shakes his head.

 

He finds himself telling James about getting dropped by Celtic, later. He’s sprawled out in front of the couch with a beer from the six pack he stashes in James’ fridge, behind all the fruit juices, when it all comes out. He’s certain James knew, anyway, since he’s told everyone the story before. It wasn’t like he’d unveiled giant secrets to his past, all of a sudden. But he hadn’t told everyone the details, and somehow the details were what made him hurt. James just sits there and listens, which shouldn’t’ve helped but did.

It’s strange, then, to find out that it all still hurt. So many years and so far along the path up the mountain that he could risk a glance backward, and it still hurt like a cut that had never healed.

James doesn’t say anything, but Andy doesn’t want to meet his eyes after, somehow. It’s not about shame, really, except it is in part. It’s more about the private nature of that hurt, how personal it had been. To love; to be turned away. No matter how many times he’d given his all, to fall short. 

He feels James reach out, a warm hand on his cheek. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have any of the words, in the end, when his body knew what he wanted to do.

  


-

 

Liverpool stuttered along in February, crashing out of the FA Cup. Suddenly out of that non stop schedule there’s a space to rest in. The manager’s cheerful announcing the Marbella trip, but it’s not enough to lift the sense of frustration.

Marbella’s still a little bit haunted by the time they spent there before the Champions league final the year before, but things had changed so much it didn’t seem to matter. It’s warm enough Andy has to go to the pool with a long sleeve shirt on, batting away James and Mohamed’s giggles at his inability to stop getting burned by any hint of sunlight. There’s endless drills in between downtime, hours spent on just passing with Trent on the pitch beside him. Everyone huddled around Ox coming back to training, Sadio’s glorious strike in five a side.

He ends up watching Celtic in the Europa League with Virgil, a habit they picked up along the season. James and Jordan were in the rec room, beating Trent soundly at pool, despite Andy’s half hearted protests to go easier on the pup. Andy hears loud exclamations all the way across the hall with his head on Virgil’s lap. It’s the perfect temperature in Marbella, this early in the year. Celtic’s playing terribly, but at least they were still doing alright in the Premiership. Somehow Andy feels like the pressure’s been dislodged, spending this time away. Soon they’ll have to return, but there was grace enough now.

“If Celtic called you, will you go back?” Virgil says, staring absently at the after match analysis.

Andy thought about it. Would he go back? Yes- no- maybe. The thing about football is he could never put his childhood dreams behind him. Everything circled back to something like the first dream, anyway. He had green wallpaper in his bedroom. Paradise, Celtic Park. A shirt with his own name on the back.

“No,” Andy says. “Maybe someday.”  

Virgil nods, serious. “But for now-”

“We’re here,” Andy finishes. It felt lighter, speaking it out into existence. For now, they’re right here.

 

-

 

It takes some time to get back to equilibrium, Liverpool in March still freezing with no sign of thaw. They limped on, past United, past Watford, past Everton, uncertain and out of sorts. All the while City kept winning, match after match as though there were no other options. Andy didn’t think too much about them, which was easy, after a while. He’d learned it long ago, switching something off despite the relentlessness of it. Past Tottenham, past Chelsea, past Newcastle: At least, at least they will have fought to the last.

It’s a blow, anyway, coming to the second leg against Barcelona off the back of the City win. _Deserve. Deserving._ The end of the season looms, devoid of silverware. Barcelona comes to Anfield with a three goal advantage, and Andy thinks about the way the youth team coach at Celtic had clapped him on the shoulder, said, _Not this time, son. Maybe if you came back after a couple years._

 

Divock scores and his heart tightens. The Kop roaring out songs, all he could do to keep running up the wing, sending ball after ball in-

He knows there’s something wrong with his calf when he goes down, tumbling. Suarez looking away, hands raised, shrugging his shoulders. Nothing ever prepares him for the terror of that moment, unreasoning terror, the terror of not knowing what’s happened or if he could go on playing. He feels Virgil’s hands coming around his face, Virgil leaning down and saying, “What is it? Where does it hurt?”

“It’s alright,” Andy says. He sees James come over, barely contained anger on his face. “I’m alright.”

He wasn’t. Gini comes on for him, and Andy thinks, _this is worth it,_ when the second goal goes in, and then again, when the third goes in, holding on to Mohamed’s shoulder till his fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt. Trent at the corner. The fourth goal.

 

They were going to the Champions League finals. For the second year running. They were through. Andy stands and he doesn’t feel the pain- _it’s only pain_ \- he doesn’t feel the cold, wrapping his arms around Trent, who sobs into his shoulder. He wants to hold them all and he does, he wants to hold the whole stadium, hold their faces in his hands and say _I have given everything._ Say, _it was enough._

 

 

 

The locker room is electric, afterwards, even though everyone had lingered on the pitch for ages after the whistle, till the Barcelona team bus had left, Liverpool singing still. The feeling refused to leave when the stadium emptied out, even when it’s down to just the team left. It felt like the whole team needed something _more_. It made Andy want to bounce his knee in spite of the twinges in his calf, something his mam had told him to stop doing years and years ago. Electric, like an open wire stripped and exposed to the air. This whole, shining year, spinning around every one of them.

 

He doesn’t really know what to do, so he looks around the room until he meets Sadio’s eyes. He’s not sure Sadio actually understood anything he says, and when he gets nervous or excited his accent overwhelms all his words anyway, but he knew, clear as day- they both knew. It was like that. He crosses over, leg still threatening to go from under him. Sadio watches, waiting, and there’s a hush, suddenly, and Andy’s aware of everyone left in the locker room watching- he wasn’t sure of himself anymore but it’s too late, now. He sinks to his knees on the cold floor, careful, hand trembling when he brings it up to Sadio’s neck. There’s a sound halfway between a sigh and a hush in the room; he shuts his eyes and presses his lips to Sadio’s neck- tastes salt, then Sadio turns his head and kisses him proper. All of a sudden it’s frenzied, Sadio gripping his arm hard enough to bruise, Andy pulling back to mouth at the curve of his jaw.  

He feels someone’s arms wrap around him, lifting him off his knees.

 “You should be resting that leg,” Virgil says. Alisson’s already stepped into the space Andy had occupied, pinning Sadio’s wrist above him- Andy wants to laugh, but Virgil’s right. It’s not like Virgil couldn’t carry his weight, even after a game like that, but he sets Andy down instead, holding him snug. Dejan kisses him on the mouth, brief but deep, on his way to Mohamed, Divock running an absent hand over Virgil’s neck as Gini kisses a trail down his chest.

James is there, too, carefully straightening Andy’s leg before pulling his tracksuit pants off.

“Jimmy,” Andy says, laughing, but something about the intent smirk on James’ face made his breath catch in his chest. He watches James dip his head and kiss the inside of his thigh, tips his head back and loses himself in touch and motion.

Much later they’re sprawled across the floor, Andy’s mouth feeling like a bruise and the rest of him about as spent. He finds Trent next to him, eyes still shining.

“Robbo,” Trent says very quietly, “I’m winning the assist challenge.”

And that makes Andy laugh, the memory of Trent’s curling corner and his beautiful passes and his broad smile that happens like a miracle, occasional on a serious face. He drags Trent closer to him and presses his forehead to Trent’s, Trent wiggling and complaining about someone else’s limbs in the way. But he quietens down, and Andy threads their fingers together, loose.

 

-

 

They do push City right to the very last day, even though the cards fall as they did. He tries to recall that feeling, _I have done everything,_ biting through the pain in his calf in the treatment room, eyes watering with the effort. It feels flattened with the results on the last day, but only for a moment. Anfield sings, anyway. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening to _You’ll Never Walk Alone,_ and the weight of their love falls on his eyelids, warm as sunlight.

 

-

 

It’s strange to continue with football after the season. They go back to Marbella again, and it feels nothing like a holiday this time. The manager shoos them out of training but everyone wanted to keep going, way past whatever reasonable time was planned. They end up with a whole morning off, Andy lying fully clothed on a floaty in the pool to pass the time.

No one wanted to loosen up, and no one could, anyway. The final loomed up at the end of the month like redemption and despair at the same time. They spend endless rounds practicing basic drills, interspersed between breaks when the manager would hole up in his office with his backroom.

He’s spending down time with Trent, wedged up against each other on one side of the sofa, Trent dispatching Andy’s virtual team with ruthless efficiency as he let loose a torrent of dead eyed abuse at the same time under his breath. Andy knows better than to encourage him by now but couldn’t help laughing, jostling Trent’s arm every time he does because they’re so close that Trent’s elbow is in Andy’s kidneys. When he does, Trent glares at him, brief, but Andy doesn’t miss the way the corner of his mouth curls up.

 “I’m scared,” Trent says, thumbs deft on the controller. Gerrard chips a beauty right over Artur Boruc, Andy fumbling over the wrong buttons.

 “What?” Andy says. It seems so foreign, coming out of Trent’s mouth. Trent, who seems always like an 80 year old stuck in a 20 year old’s body. Trent’s quiet for a bit, trying to fend off Andy’s sloppy attack on the other end of the field.

“Aren’t you?” he asks, finally.

Andy didn’t have to think about it. “Of course I am.”  

That didn’t seem like enough. Trent’s a warm heavy weight against his side, the television glow reflecting off his forehead, the bridge of his nose. There’s no sound but the clack of controllers, and far away the splashes of people in the pool.

 

“It’s alright, you know,” Andy says at last, just after Trent walks another ball into goal. “There’s- Still time.”

 

The game finished 6-1, all the pixelated figures running together to celebrate. Trent sets his controller down, careful, and leans back rubbing his eyes. He yawns like a kitten, rows of small teeth and scrunched up nose. He ends up sprawled across Andy’s lap, stretched out insolently like a teenager. Andy pushes a hand through his hair, gentle.

 

“7 days,” Trent says.

  


-

  
  
  


In the end there was no miracle, really. There was no magic, and maybe it had all been used up in Anfield, or maybe this was the way it had to go: the accumulation of all their labours laid bare on the pitch. But that wasn’t anything _new._ It was the oldest thing in the world. The oldest game in the world. Twenty two men. A ball.

He could’ve been playing with Dundee again, away against Motherwell in the Premiership to an audience of 200, it suddenly felt all the same. The beautiful game ground down to the basics: they didn’t have to play beautiful airy passes, they didn’t have to dazzle the crowd with fast pressing, they simply had to hold on. To cut back every attempt Tottenham made, smother their flames till they suffocated under the weight of their own frustration.

And to hold on. He feels the turn come out of nowhere, not even time enough to think, just James at the corner, Divock’s arcing back, the ball cutting a wicked straight line through to the net.

 

And to hold on. The last minutes of extra time. He’s been doing it all his life.

 

The whistle blows. Dimly he sees Virgil crumple on the grass, hands pressed into his eyes. He takes off running, instead, even though he was running on nothing now, nothing in the tank except that hard shining righteous happiness-

 

_It’ll be your turn soon, lad-_

 

_When?-_

 

Now: before they drag the podium to the stage, before Jordan lifts the trophy, before the confetti descends and sticks to their champagne covered skin and everything turns red. He runs to the fans who are still singing in the stands, arms out, like a boy running down the street, aeroplaning-

 

Andy doesn’t quite remember what he yells. It must’ve been something like, _this is for you-_

 

They’re singing _ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ-_

 

_-This is for us._ Then he turns back, flings himself into Trent and Gini’s waiting arms.

  
  


-

 

He wakes up suddenly, disoriented and dizzy but strangely light, even though for a moment he couldn’t even remember where he was or why he felt it. As though something beautiful had happened in his dreams, and it had followed him like a warm weight into reality.

Virgil’s arm is flung across his chest, Virgil snoring directly into his ear. All the lights in the room were still on, and he could hear music, faintly, the heavy bass of speakers reverberating through the wall. Andy doesn’t remember how he fell asleep, couldn’t even begin to guess how long he’d been out. It could be two minutes or two hours.

He gently moves Virgil’s arm off, and tries to stand up, wobbly legged. He’s still wearing trainers, slightly sticky with beer or champagne, and he peels off a solitary ticker tape stuck to the side of his shoe- and it hits him, flipping that silver paper in his hands, that they’ve won it.

 

Everything comes back in a rush: the slick shine of champagne on the floors, fireworks in the night sky, everything lit up in red. Standing in the line in front of the travelling kop like an echo to the game against Barcelona, except this time with the silver cup set like a promise fulfilled before them. The cup wreathed in red. The cup, his to touch, finally, Jordan’s to lift, finally; theirs, theirs, theirs.

 He wanders down the corridor, peering into rooms. Gini cheerfully packing the last of his things, Joe passed out on the bed, fully dressed. Studge and Ox beckoning at him in a room full of people still partying strong, the manager roaring to some European disco song. In Jordan’s room he finds Adam asleep with both arms wrapped around the cup, head in Jordan’s lap.

 

He finds James, finally, sat on the balcony. The doors are open, heavy curtains fluttering a little in the morning breeze. The sun’s come up over the horizon, though they couldn’t see it. The sky’s a shade of blue he wants to commit entirely to memory.

“Morning,” James says, shifting over on his couch. Andy doesn’t want to question why they’ve dragged the couch out, so he just settles down, wordless, next to James. He’s not sure if he has any voice left anyway, not after all the scream singing last night.

For a minute it’s enough to sit there, their shoulders pressed together, watching the Madrid sky get gradually lighter and the birds flitting across the ornate windows across the street.

Then James says, “Where’s your medal?”

 Andy blinks, “What?” He looks down, half expecting it to be gone, and looks back up at James’ laugh, full bellied and crinkle eyed.

“Bastard,” Andy says, and leans forward to wrap both arms around James. They fit, snugly, and everything’s still spinning a little, shiny stars glimmering in and out of his field of vision. Maybe he’s not so sober yet. James holds him, huffing a laugh into the side of Andy’s neck, and Andy’s satisfied, all of a sudden. This full year; them. There’s a plane on the way to take them home, first flight of the morning.

 

“It’s gold,” Andy says, apropos of nothing.

“I know,” James says. He gets to his feet, pulling Andy up with him. “Let’s go see if they’ve got rolls at breakfast.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And this is where I say: look how far we've come. I love every single one of you reading this sentence. Thank you for reading, always.


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